[Issue 16 / Feb 16]

In between fears of idleness, poems
run away.

Some return with the sunshine
of last letters

while others are left to remember
people's lives like they would their deaths.

A poem, that finds no respite from
its own becoming,

has to be thrown through the window,
into the streets, where it must

stay lost. But people, being people
still look up. Eternity awaiting in their eyes.